Ease
by Xx starlight-moon xX
Summary: Sam / Sybil. "Moving pictures come to Ankh-Morpork while Sam and Sybil are courting – wooing? Oh gods . . occasionally having dinner together while they navigate the choppy waters of romance for the over-40s. That sounds about right."


**A / N : I couldn't resist. **

**Characters : Sam Vimes, Sybil Ramkin, mentions of others. **

**Setting : After the events of Guards, Guards, and before Men At Arms. During Moving Pictures. **

**Prompt Word : Ease. **

* * *

><p>Moving pictures come to Ankh-Morpork while Sam and Sybil are courting – wooing? Oh gods . . <em>occasionally having dinner together while they navigate the choppy waters of romance for the over-40s. <em>That sounds about right.

At first, the 'clicks' are easy to ignore. Nobby makes comments of the "hur-hur", elbow-in-the-ribs variety as Carrot frowns at Ginger's costumes, his ears slowing turning pink. But when Fred requests the night off to take Mrs Colon "to the pictures", Vimes acquires a growing sense of dread. It isn't that Sybil has ever shown an interest in things like 'A Swashbuckling Epic of Swordes and Sandals', but he has the feeling it's becoming _expected of him. _It's the done thing now, among courting couples, and while Sam is never quite sure of the etiquette governing their own last-chance-saloon romance, if the Colons are making a night of it, he suspects the damn city has backed him into a corner.

And so, at last, he finds himself standing outside the Odium, feeling decidedly ill at ease in his civvies and fighting the urge to face this thing with a few drinks in him.

He and Sybil are staring at one of the posters outside. There is a queue, of course, but Sybil is a Ramkin, the most highly-bred woman in the city. She might be wearing dragon-breeder's boots and a shabby tweed coat, but Sam is nonetheless sure that to Sybil, queues are things which concern other people.

Sybil frowns. _"'Shadowe of the Dessert'", _she reads aloud. "What do you think?"

Sam suppresses a snort. The hero – some idiot with a weedy moustache – is brandishing a sword that couldn't cut through butter, and his armour's sole purpose seems to be to reflect the light that glints off his teeth. _Ting. _Bastard.

"It looks like a load of dragon dung."

There is an awkward pause.

"Isn't that a troll? Tied down and covered in green paint?" Sybil huffs. "I thought we didn't do that sort of thing anymore."

Vimes shrugs. "I think this is last week's picture. Tonight's is . . er . . . _Blown Away. '_A Woman Fighting To Save What She Loves In A Worlde Gone Madde!'" Ye gods."

Sybil studies the other poster. "She's a pretty girl," she declares at last, "but she's got terrible posture. And I _remember_ the last time the city burned down – there certainly weren't any elephants, or any of that nonsense."

Sam nods. That had been a dry night, and anyway, he thinks he'd have noticed a herd of rampaging bloody elephants, no matter _how _drunk he was. They're a sight about as common in Ankh-Morpork as chirpy dwarfs. (With the exception of Carrot, of course, who is a dwarf by adoption and downright chipper most days.)

He coughs, just as Sybil turns to face him.

"I say-"

"Do you-"

"Sorry."

"Oh no. You go. I insist."

Vimes tugs at his collar. "Do you want to do something else? This just looks a bit . . ."

"Silly?"

"Silly buggers on a great big stage, if you ask me."

* * *

><p>They end up in Harga's House of Ribs.<p>

Sybil tells him about a dragon with an octo-barrelled name, suffering from the sort of wince-worthy digestive ailment only swamp dragon genetics could produce. He plays "guess today's menu" using the stains on Harga's vest, and shrinks into his stool in embarrassment when she starts to laugh - partly because Sybil does nothing by halves, and partly because, well, he's just a cynical bastard really, and it wouldn't surprise him if the stew honestly did contain 'horsemeat scraped off Short Street cobblestones'.

The talk turns somehow to his mum's distressed pudding. And then to old Lord Ramkin, who used to practise his archery in the library, and accidentally murdered Sybil's first dragon when she was fifteen. (A rebound shot through the window.)

The night fades around them, and reels of conversation unspool.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Nobby tells him that a giant octocelluoid woman went on a rampage through the city, and the Librarian tried to scale the Tower of Art.<p>

Sam takes a drag of his morning cigar as he surveys the damage. He's seen the city in worse states, but something feels off. Something isn't right.

Maybe Nobby's nicked something important this time.

He has crushed the cigar beneath his boot before it hits him. Sam Vimes realizes - to his great surprise and mild discomfort - that he is completely sober and . . . ye gods . . . _smiling_.


End file.
